Brasyl

A twitch at the tent flap. Zemba entered the scriptorium. “The Mair wishes me to inform you, they are here.”

Mair: the hero, the supernatural leader, the extraordinary man. The legend was begi

“I am coming.”

Falcon stepped from the tent into a ring of blowpipes. The unworldly golden faces, the elongated, sloping foreheads of the Iguapá reminded Falcon strikingly, terrifyingly, of an altar screen by some maniacal Flemish painter, judgments and dark deliverers and strange, sharp instruments of inquiry. Twenty weapons drew on Falcon. Qui

“The indio asks if the Mair is man or spirit. The Mair answers, ‘Touch my hands, my face,’ ” Zemba translated for Falcon.

Qui

“The indio begs forgiveness, but it has never happened in the memory of the Iguapá that a caraíba’s soul has returned to his body from the worlds of the curupairá,” Zemba whispered. Qui

“What did the father say there?”

“The Mair said, ‘Ask me a question, any question.’’’

The Iguapá called to each other in their own language. The Manaos waited at the edge of the firelight, suspicious, ready for fight. Falcon caught the eye of Juripari, his Manao translator. One word and the Manaos would strike. One word and it would be more bloody anonymous death on the river sand, unseen, unheard, unmourned.

Waitacá jabbed his blowpipe at Qui

“He says, ‘And where was your God, O priest?’”

For too many heartbeats Falcon felt every poison dart trained on him.

Then Qui

“What did he, what did the indio say?”

“He said, ‘Of course, where else?’”

The laughter was slow spent, the madness of fear transfigured.

“Bur my friends, my friends,” Qui

A warrior called out a question. Waitacá translated. “How does the Black Pai know this?”

“Because in my madness I told him,” Qui

A susurrus of dismay passed from warrior to warrior. A youth, a still-fat boy, asked, “Will the Black Pai take us?”

Qui

“Bring your women and your children,” Qui

“Qui

OUR LADY OF THE GOLDEN FROG

JUNE 10-11, 2006

The book fitted the palm of the hand like a loved, kissed breviary; small, dense, bound in soft, mottled-gold leather that felt strangely warm and silky to Marcelina’s touch, as if it were still alive. Hand-sewn header tapes, a bookmark made from that same brass-and-gold leather, edged with new bright gold leaf; this was a volume that had been bound and rebound any times. The hand-painted endpapers were original watercolor sketches of a river journey, both banks represented, right at the top, left at the bottom, landmark trees, missions, churches all marked. Indios adorned with fantastical feathered headdresses and capes stood in canoes or on bamboo rafts; pink river dolphins leaped from the water. In the top of a dead tree red howler monkeys had been depicted in the oversize but minute detail of a dedicated chronicler. All was a

Mestre Ginga signaled for her to set the little book down. The cover bore only the outline of a frog, embossed in gold leaf. With gloved hands he moved it reverently to the end of the folding camp table before setting the coffee in front of Marcelina. She too wore gloves, and had been instructed under no circumstances to get the book wet. She sipped her coffee. Good, smoky, from a Flamengo mug. The walls of the little kitchen at the back of the fundação were painted yellow, the handmade cupboards and work surrfaces blue and green. A patriotic kitchen. A lizard sprang from stone motio